Authors: Angela Smith
One Wrong Move
ONE WRONG MOVE
BY ANGELA SMITH
ONE WRONG MOVE
Copyright © 2016 by Angela Smith.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: August 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-761-6
ISBN-10: 1-68058-761-7
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To Melissa Nobles: Since the second grade, you’ve been my supporter and encourager. You and your mom loaned me my first Stephen King novel, and I became a fanatic. Thanks also to you and Mark for allowing the use of his music in all my book trailers. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your friendship. Though time and miles separate us, you’ll always be a part of my life.
And to my sister, KaSandra. All the hours of Mom reading
Br’er Rabbit
(I wonder if it was the only book we had at the time?) and then you being the first to recite it back taught me the love of reading, and the love of dreaming. Although certain memories fade, I’ll never forget that moment. I love you, sis.
Camden
Camden Alexander slid one hand in front of him, slowly, carefully crawling his way through marshy dunes and squinting against the onslaught of salt water striking his face. He smacked his lips closed and ground his teeth on the grit in his gums, his limbs a heavy weight of dread with each forward movement.
If he was caught within miles of Dare’s private stretch of beach, what would he say? How could he explain his presence?
He couldn’t. That’s why he mustn’t be found.
Salt and sand. He hated salt and sand and humidity and marsh and anything else to do with the ocean. Tension ran like brambles along his spine, lashing the back of his neck. The clammy heat stuck to him. Not even a fresh spray of brine could wash away the goo.
This air was putrid. Dead fish. Dead seagulls. Swarms of mosquitoes. Not exactly a place they put on the Texas Gulf Coast travel brochures.
Moonlight drifted across the water, creating a beacon. He used its glow as his flare, an aid to orient him as he trudged on his knees through dirt and cacti.
“Camden,” his ear bud crackled, announcing the Special Agent in Charge. He stopped and dug his hands in the sand, crouching behind weeds to hide.
“I’m here,” Camden whispered.
“Where?” Tension edged Moore’s voice. Moore, stationed at the command post. Safe, sound, secure.
“Somewhere in the middle of hell,” Camden replied. He had no idea how to describe it otherwise, and it was one click from the rendezvous point, if his backup ever made it. “Where’s my backup?”
Static. Camden jiggled the ear bud. Nothing.
And where the hell was Fletcher? Last night was the last time they’d heard from him, and he’d been somewhere in this vicinity. Fletcher, undercover as Dare’s private chauffeur, had driven Dare out here for some kind of drug run. He’d lost his tracking beacon or something else terrible had happened. Camden didn’t even want to consider that possibility.
He was taking a terrible risk being out here like this, searching for his partner. Camden was Dare’s chef, Fletcher was the driver, but in Darrell Weberley’s world, they didn’t know each other. They were embedded in the deepest of ops, but none more than Fletcher. He’d notify them as soon as he had an opportunity.
He inched over the sand dune, peering out for any movement. If he didn’t find anything after this, he’d make his way back to his drop-off location and wait for backup. Which should have already been here by now.
The unmistakable stench of death clenched his gut. Flies swarmed in the balmy moonlight, but the moon had slipped behind a thick row of clouds. He couldn’t risk a flashlight.
He planted one hand in front of the other and moved his knee, canvassing the ground with his hands, knees, and feet as thorny weeds and sand scuffed him.
Death’s reek gagged him. He prayed he’d find a seagull, a swarm of fish, or some other poor animal that met its demise on the shores. But the stench of rotting human flesh was unmistakable.
The clouds shifted, revealing a sky full of stars. None of the beauty mattered because tonight, his worst fears had come true. Agent Bill Fletcher was dead.
“Shit.” Gagging, Camden scanned the shadows by the sand dunes. “I found Fletcher. Where the hell is my backup?”
The radio cackled, but he couldn’t hear Moore and wasn’t sure if Moore heard him.
Fletcher was dead. Fletcher, who had been their closest contact with Darrell Weberley. Months of investigation—years counting the pre-planning—to get where they were now. Wasted.
He didn’t have time to grieve. Three sets of headlights barreled toward him, the earth rumbling beneath him as four-wheelers tracked through the sand. Undoubtedly the riders worked for Darrell Weberley, AKA Dare, and if they found him, he was a dead man. How could he explain to his boss why he was out here?
“Moore,” he whispered. “If you can hear me, you better do something quick.”
“We’re sending out a chopper.”
“No. Not here. Too dangerous.”
He didn’t want to join Fletcher, but a helicopter was a bad move. They weren’t ready to bust Dare. They didn’t have enough evidence on him even with Fletcher’s death. Dare and his goons had enough firepower to gun down their chopper, and Camden didn’t want to blow his cover. He’d have to take his chances hiding.
The four-wheelers approached. He backtracked and used the dune for cover to get to the water, then slipped farther and farther away from them into the surf. A midnight swim could be his only option to stay alive. He wanted to survive, and if a chopper couldn’t come to him, he’d have to go to the chopper.
“I’m about to lose radio contact,” Camden said. He was a good swimmer, but even good swimmers couldn’t swim to the other side of the bay or stay underwater for long without oxygen. A lack of oxygen was the least of his concern in these waters. The surf, sharks, and alligators presented a danger all their own. “Send the chopper to Blindman’s Cove. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
He’d hide in the water and swim as long as necessary until the ATVs grew bored and left, then hike back to his own untraceable ATV and make the drive to the cove to meet Moore.
If Dare’s goons didn’t find him first.
“Ten-four,” Moore said. “We’ll be there.”
His skin was so hot it seemed to sizzle when he hit the water, a nightmare that might soon become reality if Dare got hold of him. His death might not be as simple as Fletcher’s. They might decide to torture him first.
He understood the dangers coming into this job, and fear always lingered beneath the surface, but he did whatever was necessary.
The four-wheelers stopped, and the men walked around with flashlights, pointing at every nook and cranny of the seashore. They rustled through the shore in search of something. Were they trying to find the body, or something else? He thanked God when a heron squawked, and they pointed their flashlights away from him.
Camden adjusted his mouth piece one last time before shutting off communication. “If I’m not there in an hour, I’m probably dead.”
He dove into the surf, paddling toward the cove on the other side of the beach. Here, the waves weren’t choppy, and he’d rather risk the swim than head back to his ATV.
Blindman’s Cove was popular with sightseers and locals both, for photography or those who wanted to fish away from town without being too far. He was a strong swimmer and could probably make the short distance, but even at this late hour, someone would likely be near.
He hadn’t yet reached the cove when the chopper buzzed overhead. The otherwise still waters grew choppy. It’d take him another ten minutes to slog through the sand and waves to get to shore. But the chopper dipped down. The men above lowered a net, the rope flapping like angels coming down to meet him and take him up to the heavens. He managed to grab on, but his body shook, too weak to maintain his hold. His muscles trembled as he made the climb, and the crew pulled him the rest of the way up. For a moment, as the net was lifted, he feared he’d plunge back into the water.
Moore met him with a towel and he collapsed onto the seat.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Camden slapped his palm against his forehead with each word. He ignored the towel and let the water trickle over his face, ears, and neck. Brackish gunk clung wetly to his skin. Sand under his nails, his gums, and between his toes a bitter reminder of his mistakes. No, not
his
mistakes. The entire operation’s mistakes.
He rested his forehead in his hands. “Fletcher should have never gone out alone last night.”
“Fletcher knew the risks. There was nobody else to send, and Dare would have killed any lurkers no questions asked.”
Camden raised his head, glaring at Moore. His skull felt like it’d been ripped open and filled with the muck, his neck barely strong enough to hold it upright.
“That’s exactly what they did to Fletcher,” he croaked. “But hell, we don’t know—maybe they tortured information out of him first.”
They’d all known their risks going into this operation. Taking down Darrell might not rid South Texas of all narcotics, but it’d rid them of Dare and his designer drugs. That’s all that mattered.
Guilt ate at him. Fletcher was dead while he still breathed, but the reality was he couldn’t have done a damn thing even with backup. Darrell must have figured out he was undercover. But how? And did he know about the rest of them?
“Do you think he knows about me?” he asked, wondering when his time would come. God, he didn’t want to die in the hot shores of South Texas. He wanted to be on the ski slopes or rock climbing or even parachuting out of a perfectly good airplane. Not by gunshot and definitely not by having his throat slit.
“No. He can’t connect you to Fletcher.”
Camden rested his head on the seat as the helicopter dipped into its landing. His heart dipped as well, adrenaline weaving in and out of his body in waves of fatigue and fervency. He felt like he was still bobbing through the ocean tides, barely able to find ground.
“We’re gonna have to do something else if we want to catch Dare in this lifetime.”
“We tried something else and look where it got us.” Moore’s voice was smooth and detached—one would think emotionless, but Camden knew better.
“Yeah,” he said, the only word he could manage. Fletcher had wanted to do this. It was his idea, and he knew what he was getting himself into. Didn’t make things any easier.
“You’ll go to work tomorrow and get back in the game. Get yourself invited to that party no matter how you have to. We’ll never have a better chance to close the net on Darrell.”
Camden closed his eyes. He was too tired to think, too tired to plan, but his brain hadn’t shut down as images crashed through his mind and slithered into a dull ache in his bones. “What about Fletcher’s body?”
“It’s already handled. Swimmers will find him before sunrise.”
By swimmers, he meant other DEA agents.
Dex, the pilot, landed the chopper on Hammer Bay’s small airfield and shut it down. Camden didn’t move. He needed another minute or two to get his head on straight before he stood. His legs would collapse if he attempted to stand.
They should have known better. Should have known better. Their lack of planning had cost them. Nine months had made the government stupid and desperate, Dare more ruthless, and Fletcher dead.